Las Mañanitas
by theysayitsonlyapapermoon
Summary: Hector spends some long overdue time with the Rivera clan. Post-film plotless fluff. one-shot.


**Las Mañanitas**

* * *

It struck him sometimes how much she had aged.

Not that he'd ever voice such things, _Dios mío_ , he didn't have a second death wish. But it did strike another melancholy chord every time a fresh observation presented itself. When her voice got particularly deep, slightly crackling. Or when she absently stretched out the bones making up her hands. Arthritis, she'd explained.

She didn't seem to mind these things, at least not enough to complain. She had aged, but it was a well and graceful sort of aging. It was just a part of life. For Héctor, it constantly nagged at how much life he'd missed out on while he was stuck on the other side. He'd missed seeing her hair turn grey. He'd missed the crows feet and the wrinkles. He'd missed a lot of things.

It wasn't until midway through retelling the infamous _la cabra_ incident, an event half the family had never once heard of, that he realized maybe the rest of them had missed a few things as well.

"Wait, how many goats?" Victoria adjusted her glasses, subtly leaning forward with interest. Rosita added another unprovoked helping of _tamales_ to Héctor's plate. They all had their preferred roles and family chef was one of Rosita's.

"Thirty, at least," he told them.

"There were not thirty!" Imelda protested.

"At least thirty," he insisted.

"You are lying through your teeth right now."

"No, remember, Señor Martinez running through the plaza yelling his herd had been spirited away. _Gemelos_ , back me up—" He implored Imelda's brothers from across the dinner table. They had been very small when it happened, but if they remembered anything it was likely to be more exaggerated, not less.

"It was enough to fill the chapel," Óscar nodded.

"I thought it was forty—" Filipe offered.

"There were only five. Maybe." Imelda tried but the story had already gotten away from her.

"So, in about ten minutes the priests are going to walk into a chapel full of drunk goats," Héctor continued enthusiastically, "I'm trying to get the back window open, cause there's no way I'm sticking around for that, I turn around, and Imelda's climbing the scaffolding after the stupid cat!"

Julio and Rosita started to chuckle.

Imelda had gone rigid. "Well, the whole thing could've been avoided if you hadn't let her out in the first place."

"Don't mind her, Héctor," Felipe said.

"She's just cranky because you're spoiling her reputation," Óscar finished.

"Oh, I could _never—_ " Héctor gazed at her. She leveled him with the dirtiest glare this side of death.

"So, what happened? How did she get caught?" Victoria was smiling, and from what he could tell of his granddaughter that was akin to uproarious laughter in anyone else. They all seemed to like hearing about the family matriarch in a different light, but Victoria was the most focused and by far the most blunt.

"Oh, this is the best part. The big goat, the one that hated Imelda, takes a running head butt into the scaffold, and the whole thing comes crashing down."

Everyone laughed. Rosita gave a sympathetic, " _Oh, ceilo_."

"I had paint in my hair for two weeks," Héctor laughed.

"You were pretty reckless, Mamá," Julio said.

"I'll have you know, I took that fall and didn't have a scratch on me," Imelda interjected.

"Must've been the cat," Victoria grinned.

"What was that cat's name?" Felipe rested his chin in his hand, trying to remember. Héctor started absently snapping his fingers.

"La princesa– something–" Óscar trailed off.

"La Princesa Bella Francesca Adelita del Amanecer–" Héctor recited. A bout of stunned silence followed. He'd always been good with names, but even he couldn't believe he still remembered that. "–Rivera." he added, can't forget the surname.

Rosita lost it. She laughed so hard she almost fell out of her chair. It proved infectious, and soon the entire table was roaring. Héctor actually felt a pull in his sides from laughing.

Imelda had her fingertips pressed to her forehead, "¡Dios mío! I was four years old, everybody–" She pulled her hand away to stare at Héctor until he'd calmed down enough to look a little apologetic for embarrassing her. "I can't believe you remembered that," she said, equal parts horrified and impressed.

"Oh, that cat hated me," he smiled, "a man always remembers the first thing that tries to bite off his ear."

She shoved him in the shoulder joint, but couldn't contain a small grin. Héctor's breath caught at the sudden contact. His bones rattled.

"You're the worst." She slid her chair back, gracefully collecting herself and gathering the finished plates amidst smatterings of dying laughter. When he tried to get up to do the same she pushed him back down. "No, you sit. Tell them about Señor Martinez's cheese disaster."

"Poor Señor Martinez," Héctor winced at the memory. "Whatever happened to him, anyway?"

"Pneumonia, I think," Imelda replied, stacking plates on one arm. She nodded at Óscar and Felipe, and the twins got up to help her.

"Aw, we should visit sometime."

"So, were you and Mamá– _novios de la escuela?_ " Victoria asked out of the blue.

Héctor froze at the question. He and Imelda were– not fine, exactly, but at least friendly. A month ago she wouldn't even speak to him, let alone have him for dinner to joke about the past. The romantic aspects of their relationship still felt a little too touchy. A little too raw.

"Something like that," Imelda said simply.

Héctor quickly rerouted the discussion to the previously mentioned great cheese disaster of 1912. He'd nearly finished when Imelda reemerged from _la cocina_ and, without any warning, delicately placed a wrapped box on the table directly in front of him.

He instantly forgot what he had been talking about. The box was large, about the size of his forearm, and covered in lively gold paper.

"What's this?" he asked.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Imelda return to her chair, pushed a little bit closer to his. Everyone seemed to be leaning in. A soft, quiet anticipation filled the room.

"It's November 30th," Imelda said by way of explanation. That day hadn't mattered in a very, very long time. He must've looked confused because she cocked her head and said, "You didn't forget? Did you?"

"I sort of did," he shrugged, feeling a little silly.

"Just open it, Héctor," she practically thrust the gift into his hands and leaned back, arms crossed over her chest.

He felt like savoring this, the one honest-to-death, wrapped and everything, gift he'd been given in ages. Once he started ripping the paper that went out the window. He lifted the lid of the box open.

His eyes started to water. "Are these–?"

"We all pitched in," Rosita pointed at all the bits and pieces, proudly explaining who had made what. Héctor just concentrated on swallowing the growing lump in his throat.

"I– I don't– I don't know what to s-say–" he stammered.

"See if they fit," Julio pressed, encouraging. Imelda just sat back in her chair with a light smile. Proud of herself.

Héctor swiped at his eyes.

The shoe fit perfectly. He was mentally trying to figure out when and how she'd stolen his foot without his knowledge in order to size it, and then chastised himself when the simpler answer moved to the front of his mind. She'd simply remembered it.

"I feel like there's a fairytale in here somewhere," he commented when he finally felt like he could talk without choking. He slipped the second shoe over his heel.

Imelda rolled her eyes, but more with amusement than disdain. "Do you like them?" she asked.

"I love them. All of you. _Gracias_ , all of you–" he looked at each of them in turn. Victoria, with her dry smirk that seemed to know everything just by looking at him. Eternally sweet Rosita, tearing up a little herself. Óscar and Felipe, far too grown up from how he'd remembered them in life. Julio, the gentle, calming presence of the room. And Imelda. Somehow he knew she'd get him back for embarrassing her earlier.

Imelda reached for his hands. "Well, happy," she counted in her head, "117th birthday, Héctor."

That made his heart spin, or at least something in his chest cavity felt like it was spinning. "You make me feel so old."

"You just choked up over a pair of shoes, _mijo_ , you're quite old."

Héctor could have kissed her. Instead he just sat back and let it all sink in, like any rite of passage, the overwhelming rush of freedom that came from finally feeling unstuck. No longer was he trapped in the eternal living nightmare that was his 22nd year, displaced and lonely and wandering. He was just as old as she was. He was a grandfather three generations over. And he didn't even have to deal with arthritis.

Imelda held out her arms, waiting patiently for him to take the initiative to hug her. She didn't have to wait long.

"Rivera hug!" Rosita called.

They all but dog-piled his chair.

* * *

A/N: -The date November 30th is also Gael García Bernal's birthday. On top of being a nod to the voice actor, I thought the timing worked, just a few weeks after Dia de Muertos, soon enough that Héctor is still kinda new to the family but long enough that they've gotten a chance to get to know each other a little.

 **-Las Mañanitas** is typically used as a birthday song. The lyric translates to **Morning Song**.

-I very nearly made the cat's name Princess Angelina Contessa Louisa Francesca Banana Fanna Bo Besca III. If you know why, you are an awesome person.

-I cried like a baby with Héctor walking over the marigold bridge in his Rivera shoes.


End file.
